


The Alpha Mail

by missmollyetc



Series: Murphy's Crew [2]
Category: Tour of Duty (1987)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:46:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Murphy's Law of Combat #1</b></p><p><i>"You are not Superman."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Alpha Mail

The mail came in today. Perfect timing. Just back from an S &amp; D in the bush, and a week of living in each others stink had made everyone just that inch more bugfuck than usual. Finally, on our last day into base, there comes the mail right on our heels. It made the guys' week-- hell, their tour. Ruiz got a package from his family, Percell got another box of mostly uncrumbled cookies, even Doc had a letter. Zeke got a letter too, probably from his Jennifer back in the States, and I...I got a letter from the General.

It wasn't a long letter--the envelope was thin--but it was enough just to have it in my hand, the physical manifestation of a metaphor. I already knew what it would say from the opening paragraph detailing a pro forma interest in my well-being and affairs, a few short lines talking about his latest meeting with the DOJ, or some other bunch of REMF's, and maybe at the end something to make sure I'll make him proud up in the OT. Thin letters that say fuck all, and the earth-shattering crap saved for face-to-face confrontation. All the better to keep control of the situation. Major General Goldman: The Perfect Soldier. To question is above my paygrade.

Even his handwriting on the back of the envelope was perfect: straight, tall A's and elegant loops and whorls. The paper was crisp and white. I was almost afraid to touch it, scared I'd get everything all dirty. No, not scared--an officer doesn't get scared--I was cautious.

But, the thing is...I can be perfect too, and no one knows their duty better than a Goldman. So, I took my letter and stuffed it inside my flak jacket. I made sure the guys were taken care of--Zeke's good at minding them, but I'm the fucking LT--and I went to debriefing.

The brass are never happy unless they can point to at least ten things you should have done--which of course they _would_ have--that wouldn't have a hope in hell of actually working under jungle conditions. Some days I think their idea of the bush is the shrubbery in front of the OC. An hour later, they let me go back to my hooch where there was a nice bottle of scotch, and no McKay for another furlong of R &amp; R.

I quick-stepped back to the hootch, and managed to reach my side of it in one piece, but once the door shut behind me, and I'd put my gun where I could get to it easy, my knees hit the bed and the rest of me followed suit. My nose pressed down into the pillow. I took a deep breath and sneezed heavily. Mildew. Everything fucking rots out here. I pushed myself onto my back and contemplated requisitioning a new pillow from Stores. Not that it would do much good; they were still working on General Sherman's order for new railroad ties.

I took the letter out of my breast pocket, and pressed it against my chest. The edge of the envelope dug into my hand a little. I carefully laid my palm flat so the paper wouldn't crinkle and closed my eyes.

"Knock, knock!"

Some days it doesn't pay to go back to the hooch. Maybe if I slept out by the claymores they'd leave me alone. I cracked one eye up at the ceiling, and listened to my sergeant enter without waiting for permission.

"Yeah, Zeke?" I asked.

"Everything all right, LT?"

"The best. Did you want something?"

"Well, actually, sir..."

Wonderful, somebody was hurt. Or dead. Or we were bugging out again. I sat up, leaning back on one elbow, and faced Zeke. I blinked until my eyes focused.

"What? What's wrong?"

I made to sit up further, and Zeke held out a hand. His big rough face was barely creased by a smile, but it was present enough to make my incipient ulcer quiet down for a moment.

"Nah, it's nothing like that, LT," Zeke said.

"Then what do you want, Sergeant?"

I scowled, but, as usual, Zeke acted like I'd asked what he wanted for Christmas instead of snapped at him. I swung my legs up and over my bed, and then walked over to the scotch bottle I kept in a drawer. I put the scotch and two glasses out on the small table. I looked over my shoulder and, again as usual, there was Zeke a bit closer than he needed to be. That seems to be Zeke's favorite spot...he's always there. Except when he isn't.

I poured out the alcohol, and he reached around me to take a glass. For a brief moment, I could feel the heat of his arm through my shirt. I was too tired to move away. I turned around and saw the letter lying on my bed, bright white against the army green of my blanket.

"That from your dad?" Zeke asked.

He nodded at the letter and leaned against the desk. Now I could feel him against my whole side. I nodded and took a large sip of scotch. It burned going down, settling like a weight in my stomach.

"Good news?"

"Personal news," I said.

"Ah," Zeke said, and looked down at his glass, sloshing the scotch in a circle.

He looked...good like that. As good as anyone could look out here. I hadn't been noticing much outside of the war these days, but...Zeke looked, well, he looked tired and rumpled to within an inch of his life, but...he looked good. He also didn't look like someone who'd come in for official reasons. Ah yes, was it time to make sure your CO hadn't blown his brains out, Sergeant? Again?

"...How 'bout you?" I asked.

Zeke looked up, and a smile lit his face. It was like somebody turned a spotlight on him.

"Letter from my little girl," he said. "Came right outta the blue."

I swallowed. "Yeah, well, letters can do that."

"Sure can," Zeke said. He took a drink, and glanced at me from the corner of his eyes. "News's not always bad, you know? Doesn't have to be, anyway."

"Yeah, well, beautiful women can't send us all letters all the time."

"Depends on where you've been making your friends, LT," Zeke grinned.

"Well, I guess I'll have to start goin' where you get 'em," I said.

Zeke took a sip. "Nah, LT. You don't have to do that."

I knocked back the rest of my scotch and reached behind myself to pour another two fingers into the glass.

"I suppose not," I said.

"So...you goin' out tonight, sir?" Zeke asked.

"Wasn't planning on it, Sergeant," I said.

He waited, eyebrows raised. The man was like water drops onto stone.

"I have paperwork to do," I said.

"A man can't live on triplicate forms alone, sir."

"Tell that to the Army."

Zeke chuckled.

I shoved away from the desk, and sat on the bed, next to the letter. "So, what did you come here for, Sergeant?"

Zeke shrugged. "Nothin' much, LT. Just wanted to make sure DB went all right," he said.

He crossed his arms and tapped his glass on an elbow.

Oh. "Oh," I said.

"Yeah," he said. "Mind if I take a seat?"

"Go ahead," I said.

I took another large sip of scotch. Zeke dragged a chair out and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. He drained his glass, and dangled it, empty, from his fingers.

"It went fine," I said. "Same as always."

"So they were happy?"

I snorted into my drink.

He smiled and shook his head. "But there wasn't a problem."

"Not this time," I said. "And we've even got two days off."

"Life just gets better and better, huh, sir?" Zeke rested his chin on his arms.

"Yeah, you could say that," I said, and glanced down at the letter lying next to me on the bed. What did someone say? A poisoned pen? Did they have serums for it?

"You gonna read that?" Zeke asked.

"Eventually," I said.

"Mind if I listen in?"

I looked up and crumpled the envelope in my fist. "What?"

"You heard me," he said. There wasn't a trace of a smile on his face.

I carefully smoothed the envelope across my knee. My father had written "Lt. Myron Goldman" in large print--larger than the address--as if there could be only one of me in all of 'Nam. Yes sir, only one type of officer here. Perfect.

"No, Sergeant," I said, looking at my name. "I wouldn't mind at all."

**Author's Note:**

> Tour of Duty belongs to others. Because of that, I promise to tread lightly with their production values.


End file.
